


Countenance

by robokittens



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Extremely Dubious Investigatory Techniques, Gay Bar, Infidelity, Kissing, M/M, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 02:58:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16904820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: Their cover story is — fine. Visiting from out of town; Bill is Holden's partner —JimisAlan's partner. Romantic partner. Doesn't like the scene, but he trusts Alan enough to let him go out to the bars and live it up on his own. It's all … true enough, or close to true, as long as no one looks too closely at the wordpartner.(Alan wouldn't cheat on Jim, he tells himself, because that's easier to think about thanHolden wouldn't have sex with a man.)





	Countenance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lapsi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsi/gifts).



> where is this set? when is this set? what are they possibly investigating? look pals i wrote some porn shhh just don't worry about it
> 
> thank u to reserve for general assistance and also allowing me to outright steal some great lines ❤

The motel is six blocks from the bar: four blocks east, two blocks north. Close enough to make getting there (and back, if Holden's been drinking on the job) easy; not so close that anyone's likely to see them in both places.

Not, Bill figures, that anyone who sees someone on the street that they met at — at a place _like that_ is likely to make conversation. They've got to have some sort of discretion.

It's close, is the point. Close enough that Bill could — he could just go over there. Just put on his shoes and his jacket and march right down the street and into the goddamn den of iniquity that Holden has firmly ensconced himself in. Find him at the bar and drag him back, by the ear if he's got to.

Assuming Holden is still at the bar. Assuming he's just lost track of time and not made his check-in call and not made his way back to the motel. Assuming he's just drunk, or — ideally, pretending to be drunk, deep in conversation with someone who knows more than they'd tell the feds, if they knew that was who they were talking to.

Holden had argued against the curfew to begin with — one AM, he'd insisted, was barely late enough for tongues to start wagging. He wanted to stay out _all night_. Bill was starting to get some thoughts about Holden's misspent youth, or utter lack thereof. 

"The middle of a federal investigation is not the time to sow your wild oats," he'd said, and Holden had just raised an eyebrow at him, pulled his (unfortunately stylish) leather jacket over his shoulders, and walked out the motel door.

That had been three days ago. Holden had gone back every night since.

Their cover story is — fine. Visiting from out of town; Bill is Holden's partner — _Jim_ is _Alan_ 's partner. Romantic partner. Doesn't like the scene, but he trusts Alan enough to let him go out to the bars and live it up on his own. It's all … true enough, or close to true, as long as no one looks too closely at the word _partner_. As long as Bill doesn't think too closely about where those tongues are wagging.

( _Alan wouldn't cheat on Jim_ , he tells himself, because that's easier to think about than _Holden wouldn't have sex with a man_.)

It's almost two AM. Holden was supposed to call by 12:30 if he wasn't going to be back by 1. He was supposed to be back by 1. Bill has his shoes laced, his jacket on, almost before he knows it. He pockets his wallet, fake ID in place, and the motel key. He hesitates over his gun: better safe than sorry, he figures, and this jacket has a nice sturdy inside pocket.

He flips off the light. He locks the door behind himself.

 

—

 

The Ambassador is … not actually the sketchiest looking bar Bill has ever seen, but it may well be the sketchiest looking bar he's ever actually planned to set foot inside of. The frosted glass windows might be reassuring from the inside, but standing on the sidewalk looking in, it's all Bill can do not to wonder what might be happening inside.

Only one way to find out, he supposes, and pushes the door open.

It's dark outside, but it's somehow darker inside; his eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim light.

What he sees is — well. The part of their cover about Jim (about _Bill_ ) not being into the scene? That was definitely not a lie. He hopes the darkness covers the flush he can feel creeping up his throat — it's embarrassing; he's a grown man, he's seen any number of things, quite a few of them objectively more horrific. But this sort of — flagrant display, these half-naked men (more than half, in some cases) draped over each other? _Touching_ each other, where anyone could see? It's a little more than he can handle.

It's both easier and harder than he'd expected to find Holden in this crowd: easier, because his eyes won't focus on anyone for too long, bouncing over the crowd in a matter of moments, and harder, because he can't bring himself to look at anyone's face. And Holden looks _different_ : well-fitted jeans and a plain white t-shirt, a brown leather vest framing the muscles the too-tight shirt makes evident. Where Holden even found these things, Bill certainly doesn't want to know.

But Holden is _here_. Holden is here, Holden is safe, Holden is … possibly not drunk after all. Bill wonders if the easy-going smile painted on Holden's face looks as false, as pained, to everyone else as it does to him.

The man with his hand on Holden's shoulder doesn't seem to notice.

No — not on his shoulder. Lower, on his biceps, cupping the muscle there. Not quite pulling Holden toward him, but definitely making his presence known. Possessive. Bill can tell, even in the dark, even from here.

He can't see much else. Holden is facing him; the man Holden is talking to isn't. Brown hair, Bill can tell; maybe reddish, but that could be the light. Fairly tall, broad shouldered but slim. Bill could take him in a fight, easily.

Holden's staring down at the drink in his hands. Bill can't tell — is he uncomfortable? Is he engaged in conversation? The lights shift over his face, creating different angles, different expressions.

And then his eyes lift. He — somehow, miraculously, immediately — finds Bill in the crowd. His eyes widen, just slightly; his smile stretches in a way that looks nearly painful. More a grimace than anything. Bill wonders that the man with his hand on Holden's arm doesn't notice.

He stands there, back to the door, face to the crowd, hands in his jacket pockets. After a moment, eyes still locked with Holden's, he nods. He takes a step backward, and makes to turn away — mission accomplished; Holden is safe; Bill can go safely back to the motel — when Holden moves suddenly. Raises his hand and … gestures toward Bill. Waves him forward, cocks his head. He says something, but Bill doesn't have a chance of hearing it over all the noise.

Holden gestures again.

Bill takes a step forward, and another. He makes himself walk smoothly, evenly; he doesn't let himself flinch every time he bumps into someone in the crowded bar. Keeps his eyes on Holden. It's not that far, but there are just so many _men_ in the way. Bill's seen pictures, but he's never been in a place like this.

He can hear Holden's voice as he gets closer. "— get a chance to meet him," he's saying. "He never comes out, and —" He stops as Bill approaches. His eyes light up; it almost looks genuine. "Jim!"

"There you are," Bill says, and the relief in his voice _is_ genuine. The man's hand is off Holden's arm, but he's still too close for Bill's comfort. "You said you'd be back earlier." 

He slings an arm around Holden's shoulder. They'd talked about this: if they had to be together in public. If Bill had to act out his part of the cover. That they could touch, _should_ touch. That it would be expected. He's expecting the way Holden momentarily tenses under his arm. He's not expecting the way Holden relaxes immediately, the way Holden turns in his grasp, the cool of the glass in Holden's hand pressing against the back of his neck as Holden wraps his arms around his neck.

"I knew you'd come after me," Holden says. It's too quiet for anyone but Bill to hear. 

He's not expecting the way Holden leans up, leans in, presses his lips against Bill's.

Bill stiffens reflexively before he remembers — their _cover_. But Jim wouldn't be used to public displays of affection, and he's concerned about his drunken lover — it's fine if he puts his hands on Holden's shoulders. Holds him back, just a little. 

"Come on," Holden says. His rictus smile has softened into an almost natural-looking grin. "It's fine, here. No one minds." He leans up and in and kisses Bill again, more intently this time. 

This kiss feels like it means something, something Bill can't quite interpret. He tries to puzzle through it, to read the clues: the evidence Holden has found in the way his tongue worries at the seam of Bill's mouth, the identity of this red-haired stranger in the way Holden boldly nibbles on his lower lip. If the way Holden sighs against him means that Holden is on to something and wants Bill here to back him up, or if the way Holden leans into him means that he wants to leave, and fast.

Although if he's trying to move quickly, he's doing an awful slow job of it. He whispers something against Bill's lips — Bill can feel his mouth moving, feel the heat of Holden's breath, but even pressed this close together he can't hear him.

"Alan," Bill manages, and Holden pulls back, smiles at him almost sheepishly.

"Sorry," Holden says. His arms are still wrapped loosely around Bill's neck. He doesn't sound sorry. "I was just talking to —"

Holden stops. Bill looks. The man is gone.

 

—

 

The walk back from the bar seems longer than the walk there had. Holden stays silent the whole time. Bill's hand rests low on his back leading him out of the bar, and for the first block once they get out; even after he drops it, Holden stays too close.

Bill lets them back into the motel room. He's going for the light switch when Holden says his name, low but intense.

"Bill," he says. "Wait."

Bill pauses, hand hovering mid-air. Holden takes a step toward him, then another; he reaches up and wraps his hand around Bill's wrist.

"Holden —" Bill starts, but that's as far as he gets before Holden's other hand is touching his face, before Holden kisses him again. 

When Holden whispers against his lips this time, it's quiet enough in the motel room that Bill can tell that what he's saying is, " _Please_." 

" _Holden_ ," Bill says again. Firmer this time. He twists his hand in Holden's grasp, has every intention of getting out of Holden's grasp, of getting out of Holden's reach, of getting _away_ — but Holden entwines their fingers before he can, pulls their joined hands to his own chest and presses himself up against Bill. His lips on Bill's are searching, hungry.

Bill stays still. Doesn't kiss back, waits it out. Holden pulls away finally with a soft, sad sound, but he doesn't let go of Bill's hand.

"Are you drugged?" Bill says. "Did he — did that man put something in your drink?"

He hadn't realized Holden had shut his eyes until he opens them slowly, blinks up at Bill, imploring. "Would it be better for you if he had?"

"What? Jesus, Holden — do I need to take you to the _hospital_?"

"No," Holden says, almost too quickly. "No hospital. I'm not drugged. I just —" He cuts himself off. His grip on Bill's hand tightens. "Seeing you there — like that — I can't ignore this anymore."

" _Like that_ ," Bill echoes. It's not mocking, not quite.

"I saw you," Holden says. Quiet. His eyes cut away from Bill's, staring somewhere in the dark of the motel room. "All those people, all those lights, all those sounds. And I saw you. Looking at me."

Bill scoffs. "Of course I was looking for you. You didn't make your _check in_ —"

"That man was … he didn't know anything. He wasn't our guy, and he wasn't — he didn't know anything," Holden says again. His voice is so soft, Bill almost has to strain to hear. They're already standing so close together. "He just wanted to talk to me. More than to talk. He bought me a drink. But I told him — told him I was with you. It wasn't a lie. He wanted — to take me to the bathrooms."

Holden bites his lip. He lists toward Bill; his eyes flick upward, and then down again. Bill isn't stupid — he's seen Holden do this before. He knows how aware Holden can be of his own body language, when there's something he wants from someone.

"And then I saw you," Holden repeats.

Bill closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath.

"Look," he says finally. "If you want to have some sort of — sordid bathroom encounter — I can't stop you. It's fine. Go and … get it out of your system. If this trip is a loss, it's a loss. We have other avenues of investigation."

"It doesn't have to be a loss," Holden says. He steps forward. Bill steps back; the moment he feels the door up against his back, he knows it's a mistake. Holden schools his face quickly, but not so quickly that Bill can't see the predatory flash of teeth. He can feel the jackrabbit beat of Holden's heart where their joined hands are pressed between them. 

Holden's voice is irrationally, unfairly calm when he speaks again. "It doesn't have to be a loss, Bill," he says again, like he's explaining something that should be obvious. "We can take advantage of the opportunities we have here."

Bill knows it's a dumb thing to say before he says it: Holden is still grasping his hand; Holden has him pressed against the door. Holden is so, so close to him, so sincere, so … single-minded. But it's like he can't help himself. "What opportunities would those be, _exactly_?"

And then Holden's hand is flat against the door next to his head, and he's somehow even closer, and then …

Bill kisses back, this time.

His other hand is on Holden's shoulder like he's going to push him away, except he doesn't push him away. His eyes slip shut, but there's no pretending this is anything, any _one_ , other than who this is. This is Holden up against him, Holden kissing him with infuriating, _maddening_ patience, waiting for Bill to catch up and realize what they're doing. 

Holden is so warm everywhere they touch, fever-hot, and Bill contemplates for half a moment if he _was_ drugged, after all. But then Holden's hand is cupping the back of Bill's neck, thumb tracing a delicate line under his ear, and Bill isn't thinking much at all. Holden's mouth is soft and sweet underneath his; he's hungry, but he lets Bill take the lead. Lets Bill pull him even closer, hand tight on his shoulders.

His mouth opens easily for Bill's. He tastes crisp, weirdly fruity; Bill wonders for a moment what Holden had been drinking, at the bar. Wonders what he's been doing at the bar, all these nights, if it wasn't gathering information. If he's — if he's let _anyone_ — How many people have been touching Holden?

The hand that isn't holding fast to Bill's slips down his chest instead, trailing the neat line of buttons down his shirt front, and Bill is suddenly all too aware of how ragged his own breathing is. Holden pulls away, just barely, but enough that Bill can breathe again; he tries to say Holden's name but then Holden's mouth is pressed against his jaw, instead, against the column of his throat.

He tries again: "Holden," he says, and if it's meant to be a protest — he's not even sure at this point — it comes out far, far closer to a moan.

"I've got you," Holden says, breathless but tone still even. His fingers unwork themselves from Bill's, and Bill stretches his hand out. His fingertips brush the cotton of Holden's shirt. Holden's still mouthing at Bill's neck, above his collar, and it's just distracting enough that Bill almost doesn't notice Holden's hands on his belt.

It feels like the space between one breath and the next that Holden has Bill's belt undone, his pants unbuttoned, unzipped, shoved just far enough down that Holden can get his hand inside.

And Bill's not — he's not a teenager anymore, not even close; it takes more than a little kissing, more than a lithe body pressing him up against a wall, to get his body interested. But Holden's hand working its way inside his pants, wrapping around Bill through the fabric of his boxers … that's doing something. Bill's head thunks back against the door. He groans.

"Good," Holden says. "Good." It's soothing, patronizing almost, but before Bill can summon the effort, the thought, to be offended, Holden drops to his knees.

It _is_ a protest this time, when Bill chokes out Holden's name, but Holden ignores it. He leans in, breathes hot against Bill's cock through his underwear. His fingers work into the waistband of Bill's boxers. He looks up at Bill, eyes beseeching, almost as if he's asking for permission; whatever he sees in Bill's answering gaze — well, it must be enough.

The cool air of the motel room touches Bill's cock at the same time Holden's fingers do, and Bill couldn't say which it is that makes him shiver. He's still not fully hard when Holden takes him into his mouth, but he suspects that won't be the case for long; he can already feel himself pulsing, filling out. Holden's not doing much, but the inside of his mouth is warm and wet.

The noises he's making are slick, lewd, not quite loud enough to cover up the sound of Bill's ragged breathing. One of Bill's hands comes around to cup the back of Holden's head, not directing him, just resting there, and the groan Holden lets out reverberates all through the room.

Bill's head tips back against the door again. His eyes slip shut. Holden moves over him, one hand barely wrapped loosely around the base of Bill's cock, the other pressing his hips to the door. Not hard. Bill could push him off, if he really wanted to. His grip on Holden's neck tightens.

Holden's tongue drags up the length of Bill's cock. He suckles at the head, pulls off to breathe harshly before diving back in. He doesn't quite seem like he knows what he's doing, and Bill can't decide if he's surprised or not. Not sure which answer makes more sense, given — given everything he knows about Holden. 

"Easy," he says, when Holden pulls back again, not fast enough to cover up the way he'd nearly choked, and the sound of his own voice startles him. "Easy there."

He reaches out and puts a hand on Holden's cheek, gentle, opens his eyes to make sure his aim's alright, that he's not about to smack Holden in the face. There's a bit of moonlight through the window and it illuminates the whites of Holden's eyes, the slick of his saliva on Bill's cock, the glint of gold on Bill's finger. He pulls his hand back, burnt.

Holden pulls off again. "I can take it," he says. His voice sounds rough, angry. 

"I bet you can," Bill says. He's the angry one now, and when Holden wraps his lips around Bill's cock again, Bill shoves forward, hard. Holds him in place while Bill fucks his mouth — just a few strokes forward, back, but enough to get the idea across. 

When he stops, Holden whines.

"Is that what you want?" Bill asks, voice low. Holden's eyes slip shut as he takes Bill deep again, slowly this time; Bill barely has to press forward for his cock to hit the back of Holden's throat. Holden swallows around him.

"What _do_ you want, Holden?" It's rhetorical: he pushes his hips forward again. Holden has given up on holding Bill in place; the hand on his hip is gripping him tight through his slacks, instead. He doesn't give Holden a chance to respond, doesn't intend to. 

Holden's throat is convulsing around Bill's cock but when his eyes open again, when he meets Bill's gaze, they're steady but wet looking, damp at the edges like tears could fall at any moment. Almost brighter somehow, determined. Challenging. And Bill wants —

He wants to put Holden in his place.

He fucks into Holden's throat slow and steady, keeping their eyes locked, murmuring nonsense: _yeah_ and _good_ and _just like that_. And Holden just — takes it. The fingers of the hand not on BIll's cock have worked their way into the waistband of Bill's pants, clutching to it like a lifeline. Bill can feel the press of Holden's knuckles against his stomach. He wonders if Holden would be touching himself, if he weren't holding on.

It's a powerful thought, that Holden is enjoying this that much, could _possibly_ be enjoying this that much. Bill lets out a hiss, a sharp bit of air through his teeth. Holden's eyes widen. He swallows around Bill's cock.

"Okay," Bill says. "Okay." It's just one word, but he sounds ragged. He stills his hips. Holden moans, greedy; Bill loosens his hand on Holden's neck. Holden pulls back, sits on his heels. His mouth is spit-shiny, red, messy. Bill can't look away.

"Bill —" Holden starts, but Bill shushes him.

"Quiet," he says. "Close your eyes."

Holden's eyes widen even further at that but then Bill wraps his own hand around his cock and Holden seems to get the idea. His eyes slip shut; his jaw loosens; his whole face goes lax, euphoric.

It doesn't take much, after that: Holden's heaving chest and his slick lips and Bill's hand moving fast. His cock pulses in his hand, striping Holden's face, and Bill makes an embarrassing sort of grunting sound. Holden's tongue darts out to lick at his lips. Bill's come is in his _eyelashes_. Holden is trembling, just slightly.

Bill stares down at him. Tries not to stare. Fails miserably.

"Go get yourself cleaned up," he says roughly.

Holden falls back, propping himself up on his hands. He blinks at Bill a few times, silent, eyelashes heavy, then pushes himself up. He's slow to stand but it seems like he's across the motel room before Bill realizes. Holden opens the door to the bathroom, and when he flips the light on he's a silhouette, a figure in the distance.

Somehow, despite the glare, despite the — Jesus, despite Bill's _come_ dripping off his face, Bill can see the look on Holden's face. He looks satisfied, like he's been proven right.

"I knew you'd like the bar, Bill," he says. His tone is mild, almost placating, nowhere near as smug as the mouth it's issuing from. "You should come out more often."

He shuts the bathroom door, and everything is dark.

Bill sags against the door, tries to will his breathing even. He should wash his hands. He should wash his face. He needs a drink. 

He's out the door before Holden gets out of the bathroom. There are plenty of bars in this city. He can find one he actually wants to go to.


End file.
